


For I Have Sinned

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Barely Legal, Consensual Kink, M/M, Mild Painplay, Peter is a catholic priest, Peter is a charlatan, Sequel, Spanking, Stiles is Legal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Follow up toSacredWhat happens when a parish priest falls for his boy?





	For I Have Sinned

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a follow up to [Sacred](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335326)  
> Because I'm not sure my place in hell is *quite* secured yet. To be fair, compared to that one, this is practically a feel good fic. (Actually, it kinda is a feel good fic.)  
> Thanks to Twisted_Mind for helping me climb head first into the dumpster again...she did a wonderful job beta reading this for me, but then I was a recalcitrant child and changed some stuff after she'd finished, so if you spot any errors, they're all me.

 

For two years, Stiles travels to Beacon Flats to see Peter, and for two years they fly under the radar successfully.

It’s been fun. Stiles turns out to have a bit of a pain kink, and Peter takes shameless advantage. Nothing too extreme, but his boy does love a good spanking. He cries as prettily as Peter imagined he would.

They’re better matched than Peter ever would have expected, and he’ll be sad to see it end. But as Stiles nears high school graduation, Peter prepares for the day when Stiles will come to him, college acceptance letter in hand, and tell him that, while it was good while it lasted, it's over.

Except that day doesn't come. Stiles doesn’t mention college, or breaking things off. Peter brings it up when he can't handle the suspense anymore. Stiles is dozing in his arms. “I’ll miss this, when you go,” he sighs. And the scary part is, he will.

“I’m here overnight, not going anywhere yet,” Stiles mumbles.

“When this has to end,” Peter says gently.

Stiles suddenly looks more awake, propping himself up on his elbows. “What do you mean, when this has to end? Are you leaving?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, sweetheart. But you’ll be off to college soon.” Stiles is uncharacteristically quiet, and Peter has to ask. “You _are_ going to college, right?”

Stiles rolls over and sits up in bed, biting his lip nervously. “I haven’t applied,” he admits. “I have no idea what I want to do. But I know I don’t want to leave you. I mean, obviously we can’t keep this up forever.  But I wish there was a way we could just…run away, go where nobody knows us.”

Peter pulls him closer and hums noncommittally, his mind already ticking over. Maybe his clever boy is onto something.

A few days later, Peter asks, “Tell me sweetheart, how do you feel about travelling?”

Stiles rolls over to him. “Why?”

“I’m due a sabbatical. You could tell your father you want to take a year to travel, and I could offer to be your chaperone. He trusts me. We could go to Brazil, live near the beach. Drink cocktails and make love every day. Nobody would know us there,” Peter offers.

“That sounds great, except that I can’t afford to just up and go to another country for a year. And what do we do afterwards?” It's an objection, but it’s not a no. Stiles is clearly considering it.

And, well. Peter can work with that. He gives a devious grin. “Firstly, have a little faith. I’ve built quite a substantial nest egg over the years, more than enough for us to live on. And secondly, who says we’re coming back after a year? You might get itchy feet, decide to keep travelling. I might have a crisis of faith, and go on leave indefinitely.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment. “You’re telling me you want us to run away to South America together, and you don’t mind paying for it?”

“Well, I’m rather fond of you, and I’d rather not have to give you up. So, what do you say, sweet boy? Come away with me?” He says it lightly, but judging by the way Stiles is looking at him intently, some of what he’s feeling must be showing on his face.

There's a long moment of silence as Stiles thinks it over. Peter feels like it stretches on forever as he waits for his reply. Finally, Stiles's face breaks into a grin. “I’ll apply for a passport. You convince my dad.”

* * *

 

 

Peter broaches the subject with Noah the following week, once he’s secured his sabbatical leave. “I hope you don’t think it’s forward of me to offer, but I’d be more than happy to supervise your son on his travels. We’ve grown close, and I’m as eager as you to see him kept safe,” he says.

Noah jumps at the offer. “I’d feel better if he was with a responsible adult when he leaves, that’s for sure. And Stiles does look up to you.”

Peter gives his _trust me_ smile. “To be honest, there are times when I think of Stiles as my own.  I’ll keep a close eye on him.”

“Brazil, you said?” Noah asks.

Peter nods. “It’s a beautiful country. I think Stiles would fit right in there.”

They book their tickets the day after Stiles’s passport arrives.

* * *

 

 

Peter doesn’t…work, exactly. 

He sticks with what he knows, and sets up as a fortune teller.

“It’s basically the same as being a priest–telling people what they want to hear, and pretending it comes from the great beyond,” he explains, and Stiles has to admit, he has a point. They have a tiny shopfront store with an apartment over it, and people come to hear Peter tell them that their loved ones are watching over them, that they'll meet a tall, handsome stranger, that their life will change dramatically in the next year.

He’s frighteningly good at it. But then, Stiles has always known that Peter's a skilled liar.

He watches, entertained, as Peter chats and flirts with his clients when they arrive, subtly drawing information from them, only to regurgitate it in the form of a ‘reading’ not ten minutes later.

But some days, Peter flirts a little too much for his liking. The first time it happens, Stiles drags him up the stairs to the apartment, intent on reminding him who he belongs to. 

“I have a prediction for you,” Stiles says, as soon as he gets Peter in the door.

Peter arches a brow.  “Oh? You have psychic powers now?”

“Apparently it’s all about telling people what they want to hear. I thought I’d give it a try. Would you like to hear what I think’s going to happen?”

“Oh, definitely,” Peter purrs, because he can see the gleam in Stiles’s eye. He’s both flattered and entertained by his boy's possessive streak.

Stiles guides Peter backwards to sit in a kitchen chair, and then he drapes himself over his lap, rolling his hips forwards as he grinds against Peter. He leans forwards to whisper in Peter’s ear. “In the near future, I can see you fucking me deep and dirty, right on the kitchen table.”

Peter grins. “I do believe you have the sight, Stiles, because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

And it does.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Peter only opens his doors three, maybe four days a week, when he feels like it. On the other days, he puts up a sign saying **_‘_** ** _Os espíritos não falam hoje’_**  

Stiles squints at it the first time he sees it. “The spirits do…?” He huffs in frustration – his Portuguese is improving, but reading it is still a challenge.

“ _The spirits do not speak today_ ,” Peter translates smoothly. “I feel like a day off. Shall we go and send a postcard to your father, tell him we’re settling in? We can spend the rest of the day in bed.”

“But won’t people be pissed if you aren’t open?” Stiles asks.

“People will read the sign and assume that I only open when the spirits _do_ speak. We’ll have a line out the door tomorrow.”

Stiles looks dubious, but Peter tuts. “Trust me, darling.”

The line the next day stretches halfway down the block.

* * *

 

 

“ _When my baby, when my baby smiles at me I go to Rio…de Janeiro_ …” Stiles sings under his breath as he lets himself into the apartment. He’s wearing a skimpy pair of cut-off denim shorts, sunscreen, and nothing else, because it’s beach weather, and he’s living in Brazil. He still can’t quite believe it, some days.

As he closes the door behind him, he hears Peter. “Stiles? Bedroom. Now.”

Oh. That means Peter found what he left out on the bed. He hurries into the bedroom, head bowed, and sure enough, Peter’s in a chair, waiting for him. He’s wearing a black shirt, black pants, even his clerical collar. It’s probably the first time Peter’s worn long pants in the three months since they arrived. He’s also holding a leather belt, flicking it casually back and forth.

“You called, Father?”  Stiles keeps his eyes downcast so Peter can’t see the smile he’s trying to hide. He’s going to get his ass spanked red, and he can’t wait.

“Kneel for me, child.” Peter's voice rings with authority.

“Yes, Father,” Stiles says, dropping to his knees. It always gives him a thrill when they recreate the early days of their relationship.

“I see you’ve been out flaunting yourself on the streets.”

“Sorry, Father. I went to the beach.” 

“The beach? Alone? Wearing nothing but that scrap of cloth that barely covers you?” Peter tuts. “Tell me child, do you think that behavior pleases the Lord?”

Stiles shakes his head.

Peter makes a thoughtful noise. “Take those nasty things off, and bend over the bed. Maybe if I mark that sinful flesh, you won’t be so keen to show it off.”

Stiles strips out of the shorts and kneels, leaning forwards so his chest is flat against the bed and his ass is sticking out.

“No underwear either? You really are brazen, aren’t you?” Peter sighs.

Stiles squirms. He loves it when Peter’s like this. They both do.

Peter walks over and skates one hand across Stiles’s ass. “I’ll give you a choice today. Five with the belt, or ten with my hand?”

Stiles thinks about it. He enjoys them both, but he knows how much Peter adores the way the belt makes him cry and beg. Stiles does too. That’s why he’d left it rolled up on top of Peters clerical outfit. “The belt please, Father?” he whispers.

“Good boy. You know what to say, and I want you to count."

He spends a little longer rubbing Stiles’s backside, peppering it with a few swats to warm the flesh, and Stiles can feel the anticipation building. He knows better than to try and hurry Peter, though. If anything, that will make him draw this out.

Finally, Peter steps back. “Ready?”

Stiles nods, and hears the leather whistling through the air seconds before he feels the heat bloom across his skin in a fiery line.

_Thwack!_

“One!” he yelps. “Forgive me, Father!”

He can feel the searing pain where Peter’s struck across the meat of his ass, and he knows he’ll have a mark. He breathes heavily and waits for the second blow. The belt stings like hell, taking his breath away every time, and he loves it. For whatever reason, it feels good.

The second blow is harder, the crack of the leather as it strikes echoing like a gunshot.

“Two! Forgive me Father!”

Peter doesn’t hesitate on the third.

“Please,” Stiles chokes out. The last two hits were in the same spot, and he can feel the rising welt. His eyes are starting to water, and his breathing is ragged.

“What was that, my child? I couldn’t hear you.”

Stiles breathes deeply, and a whimper escapes him. Peter waits a moment, before dragging the leather softly down Stiles’s back. “Do I need to start over?” he asks, his tone steely.

Stiles shakes his head, stammering, “Three, Father, th-th-ree.”

“Better, but I think we need to try number three again.”

Stiles lets out a sob, but nods.

Peter swings the belt hard. It catches the sensitive spot right at the top of his thighs, and Stiles yowls like a scalded cat. He’s barely able to get enough breath back into his lungs to speak, but he manages a shaky, “Three. Forgive me?”

His ass is on fire, and tears are streaming down his face. It’s perfect. He can’t help but cry out as the next hit lands, crossing his welts and making them burn afresh.

“Four! Four!” he yelps frantically, not wanting Peter to add any more. “Forgive me, Father!”

He’s shaking with anticipation, not knowing when the next hit will land. Peter’s a bastard like that. He’ll draw this out until Stiles is desperate and begging for it to end.

And sure enough, Stiles waits, and Peter says nothing, but Stiles can hear him tapping the belt against his palm.  Stiles can’t take it, and gives him what he wants. “Please, Peter? Please, just finish it, Father.”

And Peter does, landing the final blow in a straight line across his cheeks, making Stiles wail with the force of it. Stiles struggles to catch his breath before stuttering, “F -f-ive, Father. Forgive me.” 

He breathes deeply, relieved that this part is over, at least. It’s what’s coming next that he both dreads and craves.

He feels Peter running his hands over the hot flesh of his cheeks, and he squirms away from the fresh burst of pain. Peter presses against his back, holding him in place. “I don’t think you’re done, my child. I think you need a little more to drive the lesson home.” Stiles doesn't need to turn to know there's a smirk on his face.

He's jolted from that thought by the sound of Peter unzipping, followed by the click of the lube cap. Peter presses two fingers into him easily, twisting.

"Look how loose you are for me, you wanton little thing" Peter mutters. He thrusts his fingers in and out a few more times. "You've been naughty, haven't you? Sliding those long fingers of yours where you shouldn't have."

Stiles nods, rocking back on Peter’s fingers.

Peter kneels and slides into him in a single stroke. Even though Stiles is expecting it, his ass _throbs_ at the contact. He cries out when Peter slams home, taking what he wants.

Stiles whimpers, but Peter doesn’t stop, thrusting roughly and speeding up as he gets close. Stiles has no choice but to lie there, pliant and unresisting as Peter fucks deep.

It isn't long before Peter shudders out his orgasm, resting against Stiles’s back as he catches his breath. His hands travel over Stiles’s shoulders and down to his tender ass.  The touches are gentle now, tracing over the raised edges softly, the merest whisper of a touch.

Peter kisses the back of his neck and pulls out slowly, continuing to rub gently at the abused flesh. “My sweet boy,” he breathes. “Was that what you wanted?”

Stiles sniffles a little. “Perfect.”

“How did I ever find such a pretty little painslut?” Peter marvels. “You really are going to have some impressive marks, sweetheart. Everyone will be able to see what a naughty boy you’ve been if you insist on wearing those tiny shorts.”

“You love them. You bought me six pairs,” Stiles mumbles, hoisting himself off the floor and collapsing on the bed.

“Of course I did. How could I resist, when those legs of yours look so good in them?” Peter reaches into the bedside drawer and draws out the tube of lotion that he keeps there, massaging it into Stiles’s ass. Stiles hums softly at the sensation.

“You were so good for me, darling,” Peter croons. “You know I love it when you let me make you cry.”

Stiles grins. “I like it, too. It hurts, but it feels good.”

Peter sheds his clothes and joins Stiles, wrapping himself around his boy, kissing and holding him. Stiles snuggles into Peter’s hold, content. Later, Peter will slide down the bed and take Stiles in his mouth, but for now, he holds his boy close, and marvels that he gets to have this.

He kisses Stiles softly. “Rio was a good decision.”

“Rio was the _best_ decision.”

 


End file.
